The Story of Alhaven
I wanted to start a new story series. I was hoping to make it sort of an underground drama with some action and romance fitted in. Also, if people like it, would be nice to write in some characters, maybe take commissions for it, make some money...
Drip, drip, drip. The cool night air rushed through the streets, almost like the bitter chill of a morgue with all the lights shut off. Nightly air delicately brushed a few cigarette butts and maybe a lone, crush can or two down the pavement, the cluttering of the bumbling tin the only solace from the pure, virgin silence of the scene. Drip, drip, drip. The tall building in the backdrop, the silent guardians of the night, cursed forever to shelter and shadow the dark streets from the vicious winds, to hide those that would do harm. The bugbears that creep and cringe, that seek out pleasure, money or both with such twisted vices. The quiet hush of the swirling tide against the great stone of the wharf, lapping at the rough, unyielding concrete as it dances through the wooden, salty legs of the pier and pontoons. Drip, drip, drip...
Pier 37. It was an abandoned shipyard, back when the ocean giants needed a place to rest. It was a place of work and industry, of chains and steel. Now ghosts of what it once was, the voices of it's workers silenced, with only the vicious wind to torture it now. Giant links in sleeping chains scatter the floor, nuts and bolts left by lazy workmen scatter the nooks and crannies, the little placements one couldn't find the time to reach for. Great walls of steel mashed against bones of contorted iron, domed to the very spine atop the room, left as a bunker to the ghost's of those seafaring titans that came before. Wind swept, cracked wood sat silently beneath, given only one noise to suffer after so many years of ghostly silence.
Drip, drip, drip...
It was a crescendo now! What a horrid racket! Why must the silence be broken, why must the peace be destroyed? Drip drip drip! Again, the pounding of each droplet against that hardy wood, once more! Drip drip drip! The awful pitter patter of lifeblood spilled, dark crimson soaking into the very root of the antique wood! Drip drip drip! Why!? Why such a crime must fall to this retired place, this decrepit temple of craft and brine.
Drip.
Drip. Drip.
A shudder, a twitch. A movement now, not from wind or from ware. A little jitter of life. A life that was spilling to the floor. A poor boy, no more than 20, sat chained to a wooden chair, in bondage to his captor. His frame was blooded, his clothes gone, marks and bruises showing the harshness of their departure. Soft, crimson fur with a darkened white underside, now stained bright red with that blood. Chest and hips held tight to the chair back, spine dug painfully into the vicarious wood keeping his prisoner as chains kept him still, each breath a painful reminder of his location.
Drip, drip, drip.
"Why are you doing this..." came a hushed tone, one that reflected the torture and pain he had experienced. A simple audio cue to the map of slashes and scars his body had pained for those who would see it.
Blood from the fingers, blood from his legs, darting in between the fibres of that thick, dirty fur to touch down against the salted wood. His time was short, his body was lost. And for all his pain, all his horror. He was greeted with a laugh...
A despicable laugh. The laugh of a madman; a smoky tone, clear and sharp but hushed to match the soft blissfulness of the warehouse. Not a gutter laugh, or a snigger. A genuine, joking titter.
"Who are you!" came a sudden roar, taking most of the energy of the small fox with it. Life dwindling, body broken, end closing in.
"Who...are...you..." came a slow reply. A clear tone, hushed, as if in deep contemplation of the answer. A volatile hiss from the shadows, a call for blood. A voice carried with no sanity, but projected with an almost thuggish charm.
A soft snigger, "Who are you, who are you, who are you..." the line repeated, slowly fading and carefully getting faster before it was a faint whisper, "Who am I...?"
A form appeared from the darkness, the shadow of the great hangar clawing over the new form, across the long, dirty hair and down the back. One would see a unkempt businessman would immediately spring to mind, a dark male wolf, fur a coal colour, an almost black. A lithe build, thing, lacking any musculature or chiselled features, save for his face. Sharp eyes watched keenly as the broken body before him would stir, ears perking at the creek of the wooden chair beneath it. Sharp face down to a pointed muzzle, dominated by a smirk that would soon evolve into a sickening smile. Body was adorned with a white shirt, messy and bloody, signs of struggle and violence mapped out on the aged, torn fabric. Sleeves were rolled up just above the elbow, almost neatly save for the splits in the rolled cuff. Almost pristine waistcoat covered the rest of his shirt, black front buttoned and held by a silver backside, dirty and messy from what would have been scuffles or fights, but lacking any cuts or breaks in the fabric. Simple suit trousers garnered his legs, a few cuts and scuffs here and there with unpolished black Sgt Peppers on his feet. Top collar of his shirt was unbuttoned, adding to the scruff, with a blood red tie hung open like a relaxed nous around his neck, kept only by the tight collar still holding it.
"The name's..." began the wolf, leaning down close to the hung head of the fox boy, "Roscoe Smiles!" His name came out slow, methodical, almost entertaining as if take a bow on stage, his surname generating a sick grin on the wolf's face as his finished his introduction, "But the question here is...who are you?"
***